


The Famous Bard Jaskier and His Singing Witcher

by twoseas



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, but that goes without saying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:40:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25602958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoseas/pseuds/twoseas
Summary: Drunkenly stumbling through the forest, Jaskier overhears what must be the most important rendition of “Toss A Coin To Your Witcher” he may ever have the good fortune to hear. Well...second most important. There was no beating the original.Featuring soft yet feral men, quiet acts of affection, Geralt’s emotional resistance due to years of repression and misfortune, and Jaskier’s determination to hold onto a good thing - and not just Geralt’s pecs.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 26
Kudos: 350





	The Famous Bard Jaskier and His Singing Witcher

**Author's Note:**

> Jaskier is my favorite feral softie with the voice of a sexy angel and I can’t resist a big, tough, emotionally disastrous man with thighs like tree trunks. 
> 
> I just want them to cuddle and be happy and maybe occasionally kill monsters and knock out dickbag humans.
> 
> Please, enjoy!

Jaskier may or may not have been very, very, eye crossing-ly drunk. 

That was nobody’s business but his own. 

He stumbled through the shadow streaked woods, still panting a little too heavily. He’d given the ruffians the slip after he may or may not have flirted with their wives. And then flipped their table, spilling their drinks over them. And then insinuated that they were all either impotent or lovers of livestock. It all got a bit fuzzy after the fourth or fifth drink. Once again, nobody’s business but his own. 

When the ground started to spin and trade places with the star speckled sky, Jaskier leaned heavily against a tree, the bark digging into his back and undoubtedly doing damage to his lovely shirt. Which was a shame. The hue perfectly brought out the color of his eyes. Sleep beckoned to Jaskier even as the world tilted back and forth like a ship at sea, so he let his eyes rest… 

He awoke with a start, a hummed melody resonating in his alcohol soaked ears. 

A familiar tune, actually. 

Interest well and truly caught, Jaskier tipped his head back and kept his ears pricked as the humming turned to low sung lyrics, the song joined with the rustling of something largish. 

“ _ At the end of the world, fight the mighty horde, that bashes and breaks you, and brings you to mourn… _ ”

Well, Jaskier thought to himself with a sloppy, pleased grin. He had a fan. How nice. 

The voice originated somewhere further from the road and Jaskier was just drunk enough and had been chased off for just long enough that a friendly face seemed the perfect thing to end his day on a high note. 

After all, who wouldn’t want to meet their favorite bard? And perhaps share a fire, a good tale, some food, maybe another drink, a sip or two of water, a nice spare bedroll, some coin if they were so inclined and it was no imposition. None of that would be unwelcome, that was for certain. 

Doing his best to be quiet, Jaskier picked over the forest with care, the bare light of the half moon hardly helping things. Luckily for him, whoever sang his song in such a spine tingling-ly deep voice lit a fire and the orange glow acted as the perfect guide. 

Mincing his steps and propping himself up on passing trees, Jaskier crept closer and closer to the source of light and sound. 

A horse whinnied in what sounded like complaint, interrupting the owner of the voice right as he reached the chorus. 

“Yeah,” breathed an impossibly low and impossibly rough and, more to the point, impossibly  _ there _ voice. “I miss him too, Roach.”

Jaskier nearly pissed himself in shock. 

Taking even more care not to make a sound, Jaskier crouched down and slinked ever closer, as light on his feet as the alcohol sitting warm and fizzy in his belly allowed. 

Geralt sat on a moss covered rock, his sword laid across his really very lovely thighs. Not the silver sword he used for monsters and magic, but the one he reserved for everyday use. He tended to the blade, hands practiced and focused, going through motions Jaskier had seen more times than he could reasonably list. The fire crackled, something simmering with the scent of venison and onions.

Jaskier’s stomach rumbled and he clutched it with a glower. “Quiet,” he mouthed, silently scolding his wayward gut. 

Roach nosed at Geralt’s head, lipping at the white hair pulled back in his customary half tail. 

“I know,” Geralt grunted. “Here. It’s not much, but he used to feed them to you, so that’s something at least.”

Jaskier melted, glazed eyes focused on Geralt as he set his sword aside to instead slice an apple for Roach. He slipped the horse piece after piece, singing the song as he did so. 

Something caught in Jaskier’s throat. 

It wasn’t even the threat of vomit this time. 

A light breeze rustled through the trees, lifting Jaskier’s hair. 

Geralt stopped singing, his wide shoulders stiffened, and his hand curled around the handle of his sword. He jumped to his feet, lip curled in anger and sword poised at the ready, prepared to fight in an instant.

Jaskier leapt up with a yelp, hands high in the air. 

“Geralt! It’s just me!” Jaskier declared, the surprise not nearly sobering enough to have his words back to their usual crisp enunciation. 

Marching forward, gait leonid and threatening, Geralt growled out, “Get down.”

Jaskier did as commanded just in time to have a crossbow bolt plant itself in the tree trunk behind him. 

Another bolt whizzed by only for Geralt to deflect it. 

“This doesn’t concern you, witcher!” One of the bastards from the tavern took aim at Geralt, eyes mean. 

“I think it does,” Geralt told him at once. 

Then he deflected yet another bolt, closed the space between them, slapped the crossbow out of the man’s hands, and knocked him unconscious. 

It was all a bit much for Jaskier in his current state. He settled himself on the ground, making a face at the damp soil and fallen leaves that seeped cold through the seat of his trousers. 

“No!” Another man came crashing through the trees, dagger raised. “You’ll pay for that, devil!”

Geralt punched him one time precisely, turning the charging man into a crumpled mass of bent limbs. 

“You’ve been busy,” Geralt sighed, glancing down at Jaskier through his lashes. 

After  _ that _ surprisingly coy look, he grabbed one of the men and hefted him over his shoulder, strolling off as if he were carrying a sack of flour from the village mill. 

“Well, hello to you too,” Jaskier grumbled, refusing to stand. His ale soaked limbs weren’t much in the mood for standing. 

Geralt came back for the other man and repeated the process of tossing him over his shoulder and walking off. 

Jaskier watched him go, head lolling. 

The witcher came back after another few minutes and looked at Jaskier with an expression the bard was far too pickled to understand. 

“What did you do with them?” Jaskier asked with a groan, pushing himself into a close to standing position. 

He tripped on his own feet and a calloused hand came out to catch him by the crook of his elbow. 

“Lashed them to their own horses. Sent them back in the village’s direction.”

“That’s nice,” Jaskier breathed, unsteady even in Geralt’s grasp. He swayed into the other man and let himself be caught a second time. 

Geralt took a deep breath. “Come on,” he rumbled. “You need water.”

Jaskier licked his lips and noted the dryness of his mouth. “Hm. Yes, please.”

Plopping down on Geralt’s former seat, Jaskier watched the witcher as he took out a waterskin and a bowl. 

“Here.” Geralt handed the water over first. 

Jaskier drained it, gulping noisily as water trickled down the sides of his chin. Not his most dignified moment, but this was Geralt. Geralt never minded things like manners.

Geralt watched him closely, brow furrowed. “Where are your things, Jaskier?”

Jaskier shrugged and hummed, still pouring water down his parched throat. 

When he finished with a quenched, satisfied noise, Geralt handed him a bowl of stew. He dug in at once, speaking through mouthfuls of venison, “I have a room at the inn. I’ll sneak back in to get it all once I feel a little more capable. I am, as of now,  _ spectacularly _ drunk and more likely to fall from a window than climb into one.”

“Right.” Geralt searched Jaskier’s face, taking in the unfocused and bloodshot eyes, no doubt obvious with his superior senses and the light of the fire. That wasn’t to dismiss the smell of alcohol that no doubt lingered about Jaskier’s person. That probably tipped him off pretty well when it came to Jaskier’s current condition. 

Stomach full of stew and body warmed by the fire, Jaskier once more felt the pull of sleep. He yawned widely, jaw clicking from the strain of it. 

“You wouldn’t happen to have a spare bedroll or blanket, would you?” Jaskier inquired, blinking slowly as Geralt’s form blurred and swayed in front of him. 

“Sleep, Jaskier. I’ll take care of it.” 

Who was Jaskier to deny such an agreeable order?

— —— — 

The morning light was a cruel, cruel mistress. 

Jaskier rubbed his eyes and groaned, stomach turning and head dully throbbing. 

“I’m never drinking again,” Jaskier promised his palms. 

He rubbed his face some more before stretching his arms out with a satisfying pop. “Well, not  _ never _ ,” he corrected. “But less. Most definitely less.”

Then the events of the night came rushing back towards him, shocking him awake with far more effectiveness than the diffuse sunlight that reached him through the leaves and branches above. 

“Geralt?”

As Jaskier sat up the blanket that shrouded him from the cool morning dew puddled around his waist. Rubbing the fabric between his fingers, Jaskier turned his head and let himself frown bemusedly at the items piled neatly next to him. There was a water skin, a small parcel containing dried meat and a roughly torn hunk of bread, a leather pouch that jingled with coin when Jaskier shook it, his lute, and his bag. 

“Oh,” Jaskier murmured, taken aback. 

The fire was down to white ash. And there was no Geralt.

“Nope,” Jaskier declared to nothing and no one but meaning it most adamantly nonetheless. “Absolutely not.”

In a flurry of activity, Jaskier drank down a good deal of water, shoved some food into his mouth to settle his stomach, packed it all away, and clambered to his feet and back towards the road. A truly impressive feat, if he did say so himself. Especially considering the insistent headache that protested every movement. 

Stretching his legs their fullest extent, Jaskier made his way down the road, heart thumping wildly in his chest.

Fear and anxiety warred against his better feelings, putting an uncomfortable pressure on his chest until he caught sight of a broad figure on horseback. 

“Geralt!”

The witcher’s shoulders hunched and Jaskier wondered if maybe he would keep riding. So he gave another shout. “Geralt! I know you can hear me!”

Geralt’s head fell and after another moment he dismounted and faced a now running Jaskier. 

“What?”

Jaskier ignored the questioning growl and instead made use of Roach’s saddle bags, putting away everything Geralt had left him with the exception of the lute he kept strapped to his back. 

Jaskier gave Roach a fond pat in greeting and thanks. “Shall we?”

Geralt stared, expression flat. “What are you doing, Jaskier?” 

“Having Roach carry our things,” Jaskier informed him easily.

“Our things?”

“Yes,” Jaskier nodded excitedly. 

Mouth pinched in a tight line, Geralt shook his head. “You’re not coming with us.”

“Yes, I most definitely am,” Jaskier told him with an affronted scowl. 

“No,” Geralt denied, turning his back on Jaskier and pulling Roach by the reins. 

“Be contrary all you like, Geralt.” Jaskier pointed a haughty finger at him, “I’m coming with you.”

“Why?” Geralt sighed. 

Jaskier sucked in a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. A twig fell out. “Because you miss me. And I miss you. Therefore, the most obvious solution to our mutual problem would be to take each other on as travelling companions once more.”

A deep crease formed between Geralt’s eyebrows. “It’s not a good idea.”

Tossing his head back, Jaskier groaned dramatically. “Geralt, if I always let you decide what we do, I’d still be shoving bread down my pants for dinner and dodging wilted cabbages while you remained the most maligned man in the kingdoms. Clearly you cannot be trusted to manage our relationship.”

Geralt made a sour face, turning his head away from Jaskier’s matter of fact frown. “We shouldn’t.”

“And why not?” Jaskier crossed his arms and leveled a less than impressed look his way. 

“You’ll get hurt, Jaskier,” Geralt told him, voice pitched low. Which was really quite something considering how deep his voice tended to be.

“And you’ll save me,” Jaskier countered with a shrug.

A pained expression contorted Geralt’s features. “Not if I’m the one who hurts you.”

Lips parting, Jaskier read the sorrow and regret and guilt that flooded the other man’s face. “Oh,” he murmured, heart lurching. 

Geralt stared down at the ground.

“Tell me you’re sorry,” Jaskier blurted. 

Head rising, Geralt met Jaskier’s gaze with a confused glower. “What?”

“Just tell me you’re sorry,” Jaskier ordered with a roll of his eyes. “You are sorry, aren’t you?”

“Of course I’m sorry,” Geralt bit out, shame narrowing his yellow eyes. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I accept your apology and forgive you,” Jaskier said with a gracious bow. “Don’t do it again.”

Geralt just stared at him, frown deepening. 

Hitching his lute up on his shoulder into a more comfortable position, Jaskier aimed for earnest, honest, and convincing. “Geralt, I’ve missed you. It’s been…really rather awful travelling by myself after so many years travelling with you. You’re sorry, I’ve forgiven you, and as far as I’m concerned that’s all there is to it.”

Bright, cunning eyes flit over Jaskier’s face. Geralt remained frowning, though he did soften somewhat at Jaskier’s declaration. “You’re too soft hearted.”

“That is an atrocious lie,” Jaskier immediately puffed up, voice rising. “Just last night I was chased from the village for insulting the honor of a man and his equally uncouth companions.”

“I’d assumed you’d slept with their wives,” Geralt almost smirked. 

“There was also the slight matter of a flirtation with ladies who were perhaps attached to said men,” Jaskier allowed, waving his hands dismissively. “I forget the details.” 

Geralt didn’t say anything, but he did hide a smile under the pretense of adjusting Roach’s saddle and bags. Jaskier considered that a triumph.

— —— — 

They walked on in quiet companionship, the comfortable kind Jaskier missed in their time apart. They hardly talked, unsurprising considering Jaskier’s companion. Geralt was never much for conversation, though he did answer a few questions Jaskier thought to ask: Yes, the princess was alive and doing well. Yes, he’d just been paid for slaying a monster. No, he would not describe the fight for him. 

When Jaskier wasn’t gently prodding for information, he strummed idly on his lute, tweaking unfinished songs and playing those he knew front to back and sideways, so engrained in his mind he could play them in his sleep. 

For all the familiar peace he found in their reforged bond, something kindled Jaskier’s curiosity, something not entirely unlike hope and the promise of something Jaskier had long resigned himself to never having. 

But Jaskier could be patient. So he waited until they made camp before he brought it up. A practically monk like level of patience he possessed. 

Jaskier sat next to Geralt in front of the fire, probably far closer than he needed to be, and brought it up at long last. 

“You were singing my song.”

Geralt went still over his armor, hands twitching to a stop in the middle of repairing a section where the hardworn material had taken even more damage since Jaskier last saw him.

“You were singing my song to Roach when you said you missed me.” Jaskier stared directly into Geralt’s eyes, his entire being begging for the result he most wanted. “And this from the big, tough witcher who always said he didn’t like my songs and couldn’t bring himself to call us friends.”

Geralt shrugged and bowed his head, eyes unmoving on his armor. 

The crackle of the fire and Roach’s absentminded snuffling were the only noise for a few tense moments. 

“I’d hoped you didn’t hear that part. Or that you were too drunk to remember,” Geralt eventually said, still avoiding Jaskier’s piercing stare. 

“Oh, I was  _ very _ drunk,” Jaskier laughed and wagged his eyebrows, recalling the almost otherworldly experience of being out of his gourd and overhearing Geralt sing his song and miss him. “But I remember.”

“Hm.” Eloquent as always, that Geralt. 

“You sing very beautifully,” Jaskier complimented. “A little off tune, but a lovely resonant quality to it nonetheless.”

Geralt looked up, a wry twist to his mouth. “I’ll leave the music to you, bard.”

“Or we could try singing together,” Jaskier suggested with a teasing smile. He nudged his knee against Geralt’s, insides fluttering like it had the first time Geralt really looked at him and countless times since. “The Famous Bard Jaskier and His Singing Witcher, a wonder for the senses. Imagine the coin!”

“No,” Geralt said at once, though his lips were threatening to form that smile that Jaskier often wished he could keep there always. 

“Once more my genius goes unheeded and unappreciated,” Jaskier sighed despondently, chin in his hand. “Shame.”

“You’ll recover,” Geralt told him flatly. “Get to bed, Jaskier.”

Settling down to rest, Jaskier spent the rest of the night watching Geralt mend his armor and prepare for bed. The witcher loosened his hair, set his witcher gear to the side, and laid down with a grunt.

Even when Geralt closed his eyes, chest rising and falling slowly, Jaskier kept watching. 

Geralt turned over and opened one suspicious eye. “Why?”

“Why what?” Jaskier whispered innocently. 

“Why are you staring at me?” Geralt grumbled, still glowering with the single eye. It really lessened the effect of the glower, if Jaskier was being honest. Made the look just a bit too endearing. Not that he’d tell Geralt. He’d probably stop doing it and what a loss that would be. 

Jaskier regarded his companion with a toothy grin. “You missed me.”

Geralt closed his eyes and turned back over. 

Reaching out over the scant space that separated them, Jaskier poked Geralt in his deliciously firm arm. “You missed me.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt threatened, eyes remaining shut. 

“You missed me  _ so _ much,” Jaskier told him with thrilled delight clear in his voice, “that you sang my songs to Roach.”

“Stop.”

Jaskier poked him several times in quick succession, enjoying the point of contact more than he probably ought to have, but enjoying it shamelessly nonetheless. “You missed me.”

“If I tell you I missed you, will you let me sleep?” Geralt turned on his side and faced Jaskier with an irritated glare. 

They were close enough that Jaskier could see the striations of gold within his yellow eyes, the low firelight highlighting them to advantage. “Maybe,” Jaskier allowed. 

Geralt looked at him with a serious, heavy gaze. “I missed you, Jaskier.”

His voice entered Jaskier’s ears and travelled down his bones, making him want to stretch like a cat in a sunbeam. 

“Now let me fucking sleep.”

Feeling emboldened by Geralt’s kind words and not at all deterred by his less than kind ones, Jaskier scooted closer and cuddled against Geralt’s side. 

Geralt breathed out a heavy sigh. “What are you doing now?”

“I thought that was obvious,” Jaskier commented in a casual voice that was muffled by Geralt’s beefy shoulder. 

“Jaskier.” 

Choosing not to hear the quiet warning in Geralt’s voice, Jaskier breathed in deep. “You smell like horse and sweat.”

“That’s the horse and sweat,” Geralt told him dryly. “Perhaps your delicate nose could be spared if you returned to your own space.”

“Well, then I suppose my delicate nose,” Jaskier sniffed, “will have to get used to it. Really, Geralt, when was the last time you had a bath? I know you enjoy them.”

Realizing Geralt wasn’t going to shove him across the forest floor or into a tree for the breach of personal space, Jaskier tested his luck, slinging his arm over Geralt’s wide and absolutely lovely chest. He let his hand rest  _ just so _ over a perfect curvy muscle. It was everything he’d dreamed. 

“We don’t do this, Jaskier,” Geralt tried in his most reasonable voice. 

Jaskier would normally at least consider listening to that very calm, very reasonable voice. However, in this instant he could feel the slight racing of Geralt’s steady heart beneath his palm and that took precedence.

“That simply isn’t true,” Jaskier mumbled into Geralt’s shoulder. “Or don’t you remember that winter with the wolves and the town that tried to burn you and hang me?”

“I try not to,” Geralt mumbled. 

“Don’t be like that!” Jaskier scolded. “We had a good time. After you kicked your way through the pyre and cut me down, of course.”

“Hmph.”

“You know, Geralt,” Jaskier mused, throwing his leg over one of Geralt’s blessedly thick thighs. “This is nice. We should do this more often.”

“It’s not a good idea,” Geralt repeated his constant refrain that Jaskier was beginning to see right through. 

“I’m going to politely disagree with you.” 

To punctuate his point, Jaskier nuzzled into the crook of Geralt’s neck. Geralt shivered and Jaskier grinned, wide and puckish, as his hand drifted downward. 

“Jaskier!”

“Oh, come on!” Jaskier sat up in a quick motion and straddled Geralt, a sly smile on his face. “You want to, you  _ actually _ want to, and I’m not about to miss the perfect chance to make my decades long dream come true.”

“Why are you doing this?” Geralt asked, propping himself up on his elbows. His eyes darted around, conflicted and curious, even as Jaskier shifted his weight down gingerly, but undeniably. 

Jaskier beamed as Geralt’s hand shot out to grip his thigh. The sharp line of his jaw was clenched tightly, the muscles of his neck standing out. 

“Because it’s a great idea,” Jaskier declared with a happy laugh. Planting his hands down on Geralt’s chest, the bard met Geralt’s gaze with an open one of his own. “And because I love you, Geralt. So...there.”

Geralt stared at him, various emotions flashing across his face in minute changes. Geralt seemed to be engaged in a tumultuous debate with himself, expression shifting with dizzying speed. 

Jaskier just needed to tip the debate in his favor.

“Geralt,” Jaskier prompted, voice more confident than he felt. “This is where you say it back. Or kiss me. I’m not picky about which, but if you’re taking suggestions, both would be more than satisfying.”

Geralt locked eyes with Jaskier, gaze intense and fingers tightening around Jaskier’s thigh. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier questioned, starting to feel self-conscious as the sheer vulnerability of his confession and physical position caught up to him. 

“Well…” Geralt rumbled, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. He flipped them both easily, hovering above Jaskier with his bare forearms braced on either side of his head. His hair fell over his shoulders and around his face, a silver curtain that afforded them their own sort of intimate privacy in the middle of the forest. His lips brushed against Jaskier’s, light and teasing, but palpably earnest and sweet. When he spoke, his voice came out in a husky whisper that Jaskier felt more than heard. “Of course I love you. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Oh,” Jaskier gasped, overcome. “I’ll show you exactly what it has to do with, witcher, just you wait.”

Geralt’s surprised huff of laughter when Jaskier rolled them back to their previous position was infinitely worth the sheer amount of manpower Jaskier had put into managing it. 

— —— — 

Jaskier walked his fingers across the vast expanse of Geralt’s chest. “You know, I was absolutely right. You should always let me manage our relationship.”

“Should I?” Geralt asked on a yawn, arm wrapped warm and snug around Jaskier’s back. 

“With you in charge, I get some incredibly hurtful words hurled at me and you get left alone to  _ sulk _ and  _ brood _ and be all tragic and the worst caricature of a witcher,” Jaskier scoffed. “With me in charge, we both get well fucked and I learn all about that thing you can do with your tongue.”

Geralt’s only response was to squeeze Jaskier tighter to his side, practically pulling him atop the witcher - something Jaskier was never, ever going to complain about. Geralt was firm in all the right places, but soft where it counted, and Jaskier infinitely preferred using him as a bedroll as opposed to using an actual bedroll or the cold, hard ground. 

If Jaskier was going to get anything hard, it was going to be hot. And big. And attached to a certain witcher. 

“So I take it I have no further complaints from you?” Jaskier asked with his most imperious voice. “No more, ‘oh, Jaskier, it’s not a good idea’ and other unbearably ridiculous claims?”

“None at all,” Geralt grumbled, eyes drifting to a close. 

Content and assured, Jaskier closed his own eyes and nodded happily. “That’s what I thought.”

Geralt’s steady breaths and comforting heat lulled Jaskier into the sweetest sleep he’d managed in quite some time.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Yennefer, looking at Jaskier in Geralt’s lap: So not friends then? Took a few years, but nice to finally know where you two stand.  
> Jaskier: Best friends and lovers in the night if you want to be accurate.  
> Ciri: This makes sense. Aren’t all the songs you write about Geralt?  
> Geralt: Not all. Not “Her Sweet Kiss”  
> Jaskier: ...  
> Yennefer: ...  
> Ciri: ...  
> Jaskier: Oh, Geralt. I literally used the term “garroter”  
> Geralt, remembering his relationship with Yennefer and what Marilka compared his name to back in Blaviken: ...fuck.


End file.
